


Horrors Told

by TNKT



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, Chases, Drinking to Cope, Fights, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Hiding, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Insane Miles Upshur, Insane Waylon Park, Insanity, Jeremy Blaire Being an Asshole, Kidnapping, Miles is Sad and Gay, Multi, Murkoff Corporation, Nightmares, On the Run, Permanent Injury, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Stabbing, Torture, Traumatized Miles Upshur, Traumatized Waylon Park, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Walrider Miles Upshur, Waylon loves Lisa, but they'll get better probably, from very bad guys, i miss my wife Miles, poor Waylon, that's okay Waylon will hug him i'm sure, that's right trauma for everyone, the walrider is not easy to host, things will get worse, two bros chilling in the same room cause they're motel hopping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29828106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TNKT/pseuds/TNKT
Summary: Miles is the new Walrider host and he's pretty sure he's fucked. His mind is quickly made up to destroy everything of Murkoff's experiments before he dies, and that's what he does,untilhe comes across one surviving patient who's lucid enough to escape and who may be able to do what Miles can't.(This is my made-up continuation of Waylon's escape of Mount Massive Asylum and efforts to expose Murkoff with Miles' help. They'll probably get real close and all brotp-like, slow burn, baby!)
Relationships: Lisa Park/Waylon Park, Waylon Park & Miles Upshur, Waylon Park/Miles Upshur
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	Horrors Told

**Author's Note:**

> This is not about the story but I just wanted to say that I love how so many fanfic writers go buckshit wild on the gore and insanity in this fandom, I've read so many fucked-up disturbing messy fics and I'd nod slowly and go "ah, yes, that must have been cathartic for them, good, good", cause sometimes it sure felt cathartic to me.  
> I know stuff like that is often controversial, but I say good on you guys for finding creative and fictional outlets for all your nasties. Shoutout to you.
> 
> Anyway, this is not gonna be one of those unleashed fics, I just like writing continuations to games and I like speculating on the Miles-Waylon relationship. Hope you enjoy~

Buzzing in his head, loud, constant. White lights flashing at the back of his eyes, dizzying, blinding. A dull pulse deep within his body like a heartbeat, but it couldn't be, it didn't feel like one, there were too many cold bits of lead stuck deep inside his flesh. Yet Miles Upshur was moving.

It hurt. _Fuck_ , did it hurt. 

He kept moving. The huge, dark mass swirling around him was intangible and asphyxiating all at the same time and it thrummed like sluggish viscous blood through his veins. It wasn't just _there_ ; it spoke to him on some deep, inhumane level, and Miles couldn't understand it, but he did anyway. He wasn't alone with himself anymore.

Miles wasn't dumb. He knew this mist obscuring his vision was the Walrider, that just as Wernicke had uttered with a horrified curse, Miles was now its host instead of that poor Billy fucker. He'd thought he was free when he pulled the plug and caused Billy Hope's death. Ha. Fucking fool he'd been.

The Walrider had never been unmade, it probably couldn't ever be. All Miles had done was make it angry, or desperate, or just intent on finding a new host. It had thrown him around violently and effortlessly in a disorienting and painful dance, and then it had lifted him high up in the air. Miles had felt his body pulled apart in every direction like he was being quartered on some invisible, unyielding wheel, punishment too great for any sin he might have comitted and yet which he felt he'd somehow deserved after seeing what he'd seen in that hellish place. And then, suddenly, nothing. Just Miles dropping to the ground like the broken doll he was and no black cloud in sight. Just Miles, dragging himself forward, stumbling towards a hopeless escape, feeling himself fading. Just Miles, and his breaths echoing through his brain, and his vision blurring, and his body agonizing.

Until the soldiers, and Wernicke, and the first bullet which Miles had both seen and felt but had been unable to believe had just penetrated his body. Then the spray of lead, the pain on top of the pain, the shock that left him no other option but laying mortally wounded on the ground as he bled out and his surroundings dimmed. 

Finally, the unearthly screech, screams, gunshots, terror.

And now, somehow, Miles was moving again. The Walrider was there all around him but it didn't feel like a threat anymore. It felt like... Miles didn't want to delude himself into thinking this, but he knew he'd already gone at least half-mad from his stay here, and maybe he just didn't have the strength to fight anymore. _So fuck it._ Delusion, then, at least half-accepted, that the Walrider was now by his side instead of against him. Miles wasn't gone far enough to indulge in the fantasy that it was an ally; he could feel in his flesh and marrow that this entity was neither man nor beast, just cold impersonal nanotechnology. The Walrider had no conscience that Miles could feel out alongside his own. But he wasn't alone.

He knew it was the Walrider that was somehow enabling the movements of his body which, by all accounts, should have been a lump of raw meat lying on the cold floor of the sublevels of Mount Massive Asylum by now. He couldn't run, his body wasn't responding to that kind of command; it was just moving forward. Miles was covered in his own blood from head to toe but the spurting of the bullet wounds littering his chest had stopped. He'd checked: they weren't closed. This was just another detail that defied sanity which he couldn't be assed to dwell on right now. He just wanted to put an end to this hell. He just wanted to get the fuck out of this god forsaken asylum.

Miles quickly understood that while he didn't feel that he was controlling anything at all, his involuntary emotions were apparently in charge. He walked past two, three solitary variants which didn't notice him, but then came the moment when he was inevitably noticed by a small group, and they all turned to stare at him with their deformed sewed-up faces, their hands clenched around metal pipes and boards and glass shards which they weren't feeling the cut of, one of them slurring words that sounded too much like "get the whore!" Miles felt his guts crystallize with cold terror because he couldn't run, there was just no way, and all he wanted was for them to leave him alone so he could _just get out_ -

And then the black smoke billowed out in the space around him, fanned out towards them with lethal intent, and Miles stared wide-eyed and insensate at the screaming explosions of bodies. Wet, crunching, bloody chunks splattered all over the ground and walls and ceiling. The Walrider returned to him, silently and neatly retracting into shadows that only swirled close to his skin. Miles stood there for a while to try and make sense of what had just happened. He'd seen it happen to Walker, he'd thought it would happen to him, now it had happened to them- and the Walrider was just waiting. On standby. Something tickled and itched down Miles' cheek and he lifted an arm to his face to wipe at it. Blood glistened on his sleeve. Projections from the bodies. 

Miles started walking again. 

And as he walked through the dirty, stinking, gore-covered rotten halls, Miles understood that he was powerful. More powerful than any motherfucker left alive in this shitty asylum. The realization sunk in like a cold certainty, and Miles might have felt relief somewhere in there but really, he felt empty. Stony. 

His shoes squelched wherever he stepped. Dark red puddles everywhere. It reeked of urine and shit and sex and death. Bodies. He kicked in some wayward limb and didn't give a fuck. It was just exposed bone and nerve and muscle. It didn't feel like a big deal. Felt normal.

A dry laugh escaped Miles and he made no effort to stop it, he couldn't say he'd even been surprised to make that sound. He stopped in his tracks. His body shook with twisted mirth, and his fingers hurt and his head hurt and his chest hurt and _fucking everything hurt and he should've been dead_ but he couldn't stop laughing. The darkness thickened around him and he welcomed the reprieve against the ugly yellow lights of the hall. All of this. All these bodies, all this gore, all this horror. All of this, for what? It didn't even mean anything to him anymore. 

_Just a casual Sunday stroll. Fine day to shake hands with a severed arm. Careful not to splash in the bloody puddles, now, don't want mom to get mad._

Miles tipped his head back and laughed louder, finding his thoughts and the whole situation so funny that he had to lean against the wall to steady himself. This was his life now, this was his damned life. He'd come here to expose Murkoff's dilapidated ethics and he had his evidence, yeah, _shit, the camera, left it behind, but it's fine_ , he had the fucking evidence, files and documents in his torn jacket- but he couldn't possibly show himself like this. There were only two options he could see happening to him if he did: captured and experimented on by another sick fuck like Wernicke, or live on the run and be a danger to society.

Going outside... Outside sounded like a fever dream at this point. He knew he'd had a different life, once, but it didn't feel real. It was like all that had ever existed was this place. Miles Upshur wasn't even sure that he was Miles Upshur anymore. He was carrying the Walrider around, was an unwilling host to it and could probably qualify as a zombie or something along the lines, and he'd seen his reflection in the broken windows. He didn't look human. He couldn't even begin to describe what he looked like. It was hilarious. Beaten down by this hellhole and its monsters just to come out of it a monster himself, and a fucking powerful one at that. Powerful enough to pulverize three grown men at once in the blink of an eye. 

Miles stopped laughing and slowly looked ahead.

Oh, he was powerful all right.

The decaying joy inside of him coagulated into frigid ire, like a twitching muscle in his head had suddenly gone into rigor mortis. The anger wasn't loud or caustic, but it throbbed dark and oozing inside of him and Miles knew what he had to do. If he couldn't get out to prove the existence of Murkoff's fucked-up experiments to the world, then destroying everything in this fucking place sounded like a plan. End these miserable poor sacks of shit.

_Not a lot of time left._

Miles had no idea how long the Walrider would keep him together, or maybe it was the opposite that was happening. He didn't know how long he'd stay alive. 'Alive'. He had to move. 

He moved. Swept the halls and killed, again and again and again. Ended all the tortured mindless lives he came across, even those peaceful, because even if they didn't hurt anyone they were all unwilling monsters just like him. Insane and already dead inside, leaving behind only remains of what could've once been human. Maybe they'd all been a sort of criminal but Miles was deeply convinced no one deserved this fate, and if they'd deserved to suffer, they'd suffered more than enough already. At least death by the Walrider was swift.

He killed soldiers on the way, too. Some out of a dirty sense of revenge and betrayal that had stuck with him since the sublevels- he'd thought they'd been there to save him. Too fucking naive, too fucking desperate to live after everything. But they'd shot him without a moment's hesitation. So he did the same. Others he didn't even see, but the Walrider killed them without him. It must've registered that they were an unconditional threat.

Miles' anger gradually withered into some kind of numb fog of indifference. He'd thought this kind of power would be exhilarating to wield, after all the shit he'd had to helplessly wade through, he'd expected to feel some kind of grim satisfaction like he had when Trager had been crushed to a pulp. But maybe this place had dug itself too deeply inside of him to feel anything positive anymore. It was so easy to end their lives. It shouldn't have been this easy. 

The Walrider had nothing to say to any of this. Miles felt nothing, not a trace of emotion coming from it. He couldn't help but wonder if it had been this mindless a swarm when Billy had been its host. Had all those killings solely been Billy's initiative? Had it been his final revolt against the asylum's treatment of him? Maybe he'd only started what Miles planned to finish. Miles felt like Billy had had the right idea and he'd been the fucking dumbass journalist to stop his rightful revenge. Ultimately, every single one of Miles' efforts in this place had been useless. He couldn't expose Murkoff. He hadn't been able to stop the Walrider from existing in this reality. He was just picking up the killings again. It wouldn't have changed a thing if he'd been there or not.

Miles felt tired.

He'd find a way to end this, too, once he'd have ended everything around him. The Walrider couldn't keep him alive forever, and if Miles locked himself in before he died, then it would have nowhere to go once hostless. _No choice but to go back to where you came from then, asshole._

He heard a grunt from afar, the soft thump of a body collapsing. He automatically headed in that direction to snuff out whatever life remained there as well. There was golden light pouring through the glass panes as he approached the wide hall which he noticed was the main entrance to the asylum. His steps were unhurried as he went to stand above it and gazed down below. He saw a patient, dirtied orange jumpsuit and green sleeves drenched with blood, dragging himself backwards as he pressed a hand to his stomach. He saw a man in a dark blue suit, too sharp and neat to be anything else but some higher-up running this place.

"No one can know!" Suit yelled at the patient, stalking up to him.

There weren't a million possible reasons for him to be saying that. This man knew, then. Wanted for all the horrors they'd let happen in this place go untold. Light glinted off the shank in his hand and it was clear he'd stabbed the patient in the stomach with the intent to shut him up forever. Miles didn't need to move a muscle for the black swarm to start slipping through the broken glass down towards the human shitstain, and his gaze slid off to the side to look at the man's victim. Still struggling to back away with one limp leg, panting, fresh blood staining his jumpsuit. Face whole, not disfigured like the others. Eyes wide and very much lucid in their terror.

And he had a goddamn camera.

Suit grabbed the patient and threw him all the way to the ground, looming over him as he lifted his weapon to deal the lethal blow. "No one!"

The Walrider shrieked its hunting cry and closed in on them both. Miles watched in distant surprise as it wrapped only around Suit and started shaking him in the air like a dog ragging on its toy. The patient stared, silent and immobile and slack-faced, as Suit screamed.

"Oh, God, oh Christ in heaven how did it get out! No- No please, no, God, NO-"

His voice reached its highest pitch right before the gruesome ripping sound cut him off. Then it was just the usual shower of torn limbs, torso halves, broken bones, glistening globs of muscle, and rain of blood all splattering down. The patient lifted an arm to protect his face, an instinct which confirmed Miles' suspicion that this wasn't one of the variants. Variants weren't afraid of a little blood on their face. Variants didn't go for the exit of the asylum. Variants didn't have a goddamn camera. The swarm dispersed and returned to Miles, and Miles watched the patient check Suit's remains, heave a great gasp, expel the air on a shaky breath and then never stop shaking as he grabbed at his stomach and struggled to get back up amidst the broken glass.

It was obvious all he wanted was to escape just like Miles once had. He'd need help to leave. Miles turned around to take the stairs, and suddenly he could feel a sense of urgency, faint but there all the same, pulsing softly in his core like... Like hope. There was someone else. There was someone else with a camera, someone whose head wasn't fucked up beyond all repair, someone who could get out and survive and show the world what had happened here. Miles urged his legs to move faster. He stepped over and on the corpses and body parts as he made his way to the light.

Day. He'd forgotten there could be anything other than night, even though he couldn't feel the sun on his skin or be blinded by its rays because the swarm was so thick around him. 

Miles wanted to go with that patient. He wanted to leave too. He'd thought for a second- hoped- that they would both do that. He'd somehow forgotten that he was a monster now. He'd forgotten his goal was to wipe this place clean and then kill himself. He'd die soon anyway, when whatever it was that was happening between him and the Walrider ceased. He felt like he was constantly on the verge of dying. He knew he would, when the Walrider left, because of the bullets and all the rest of the damage that had been inflicted on him.

Miles heard a car door open and slam shut and his focus zeroed in on none other but his own bright red Jeep, where he saw the patient sitting at the wheel. 

_Oh, come on, you asswipe. You had to take my car._

Miles walked forward without any real purpose, down the steps, and felt the Walrider get more agitated as if it was discontented that he was exposing it to natural light. It whirled around him so strongly that it was ripping leaves off the nearby bushes in a dark tornado. Miles saw the patient lean forward, then lift the camera in his direction. He saw the way the patient's shoulders hunched, how clearly alarmed he became. He saw the patient throw the camera to the side and struggle with the gear.

The gate was closed and he couldn't take the chance for the sole remaining survivor to hurt himself even worse while ramming into it, so he sent the Walrider forth to do his bidding and watched it wash over the distance, past the car that the patient had hastily and clumsily turned around, into the gates. It felt as natural as breathing now. Miles didn't know if it was normal that he'd acquired mastery over the swarm so fast. It didn't matter. The gates violently clanged open and the red vehicle burst through.

 _Tell the world what they did,_ thought Miles as the patient vanished down the road beyond. The Walrider returned to him, and the black vortex widened for several long moments as Miles Upshur prepared himself to lay waste to the entire hill of Mount Massive Asylum. 

A loud crash rang out from a distance. 

Miles stood completely still and then slowly turned around in the direction of the sound that had sounded suspiciously similar to a fucking car accident.

"You've gotta be shitting me," he rasped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 03/03/2021 -
> 
> Hey pumpkin!
> 
> So this is a year I'm supposed to study lots and I have so many exams coming up but you know what my brain decided to do? That's right, get into Outlast all over again. And read fics and write this brain worm that's been living in my head for several years that I never wrote cause I was in another fandom. 
> 
> Well, that's just the way the cookie crumbles. I hope you like this. Definitely don't expect regular updates though since, as I said, this was something I wasn't supposed to write whoops
> 
> Thanks for reading, share your thoughts with your author below <3  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> If not a comment, please leave kudos if you enjoy the story, it means a lot to me!


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